


Finding You

by SrebrnaFH



Series: Srebrna's Sherlock AUs [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Valdemar Series - Mercedes Lackey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Valdemar Series Fusion, Companions (Valdemar), Heralds (Valdemar), M/M, Mycroft is Queen's Own, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-21 14:53:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18704572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SrebrnaFH/pseuds/SrebrnaFH
Summary: Johnashiel, the Captain of Archers, Herold of Valdemar, is injured in battle and loses the only creature he ever really loved. What awaits him back in Haven?





	Finding You

**Author's Note:**

> This will make absolutely no sense whatsoever to anyone who doesn't know both of these fandoms at the same time, I'm afraid.  
> It is very roughly put together, but the plot bunny was gnawing at me for some time already and I needed to write it out to make it leave ;)  
> Huge spoilers for later books of Valdemar.

"That boy is pain in the ass," was not exactly the best way to describe one's Crown Prince. It was still better than "Freak" and "Weirdo" that John had heard from the others around him.

Houses of Healing were supposed to be a place when everyone was kind to each other and came to seek relief. Well, apparently some people suffered of itchy tongue and had to relieve it by wagging said appendage in gossip.

John wished for several things.

He wished he could turn on his side.

He wished he could pee without someone's help.

He wished he could walk out of there and leave these petty people and their petty issues behind.

But most of all he wished for his Companion to be alive.

There was a sucking emptiness in the back of his mind, a wound in his soul, a hole...

"John?" one of the healers was on him immediately, the moment the room fell silent under the overwhelming wave of crushing grief from his separated little cubicle. "John, focus on me. You know your shields are weakened, but I need you to let me in, to..."

_No. Go away. Leave me alone. He died. It was my fault, and he died and I'm alive and I can't I can't I can't I can't..._

Everything dissolved into blue mist.

_Shit. They had to suppress me again._

_What the hell, soldier._

_What the hell._

_What are you doing in these fancy white rags, John?_

_I've been Chosen, Hary. He Chose me._

_John, where are you going? Why won't you stay with us..._

_Father's blank face._

_Mother's wide, angry eyes._

_Abomination._

_Hary, I'm needed. Valdemar needs me._

_I need you more. The Queen has other people. Why does she need my brother?_

_Every Herald has a purpose, Hary._

_He..._

_What's his name?_

 

Blank.

 

#

 

"You should say it some day," the MindHealer in front of him sighed. It was hard even for trained Empaths to stay in one room with him and Healers were... sensitive. His dreams were full of blood and killing and darkness. His waking hours were filled with physical pain and mental anguish, self-recrimination and desperate need, yearning for _him_.

"No," John coughed. "Can't. I can barely think about him. I can't just... just use his name. It was him. If I use up his name, I won't have... won't have anything else. There is _nothing_ left."

"J..."

" _Shut up,_ " he growled. "Let this go. I won't. It was him and he was mine and I was his and whatever you say, whatever you think you know about me? You _don't_. You..." he shook all over in the soft chair and felt his jaw clenching painfully. "You have no idea. No idea at all."

 

#

 

In the palace, a lanky, dark-haired youth woke up from his afternoon nap with a curse.

"My Prince," his valet smiled with his thin lips. "Your head?"

"Feels like an interior of a smithy in there," the young aristocrat moaned. "I can't... can't think..."

"Shh..." the servant captured his master's arm and swiftly applied the injection of the drug the thin body was yearning for. "It will feel better soon, I promise."

Long, lithe fingers curled up in reaction and then relaxed.

_Blessed nothingness._

_If I can't feel them, they can't hurt me._

_I don't want to feel them._

_Why should I?_

_I can't help them._

 

#

 

A whole building away, another man drew in a shaky breath and carefully, one by one, put his shields back in place.

"I'm so sorry," he said aloud to the empty chamber. "I'm so very sorry, brother mine. I wish there was another way."

 

#

 

There are two kinds of Empaths. Ones who sense too little and ones who sense too much. A rare case is an Empath just in the right state to be both useful and not overwhelmed by what they take in. The most important asset of an Empath is the one creature that can help them balance it out - be it a sibling, a loved one, a Hawkbrother-bred bird, a Firecat or a Companion.

But reliance on external help is easy when one is a Holderkin girl of thirteen who had never expected any kindness from life and will happily depend on a horselike creature to carry her through life, so one can grow up to accept the fact that their mind is cushioned by the best friend an Empath may ever find. It is much harder for these Chosen later in life, and, what's worse, are male.

In order for a Companion to be able to help you, you must have one.

And some lose theirs and some had never had one.

And once you do, you need to let them in.

And some can never open enough.

 

#

 

"Where is Jimminy?" the younger brother demanded, smashing the door to the elder one's room open. "What have you done with him!?"

His brother - Queen's Own, the Heir to the Throne - although who knew how this was supposed to be pulled off - barely raised an eyebrow.

"Jimith has been sent to serve in a place where his particular talents will be bent to much better use than he had been applying them to now."

"You can't just send my valet away," Sherlock hated the fact that his voice shook so much. "I can't... I can't..."

"Ah, you've sent for me, Queen's Own?"

Sherlock twirled in place, seeking the source of the new voice and the feelings that grated on his overexposed nerves, spilling over from the newcomer like a foam on ale spills over the rim of the glass, but why, why, why would his brother do _that_ to him...?!

"Sir?"

"Captain," the annoying voice of his brother was back. "I apologise for the state of my younger brother, he is in certain distress today. Sherlock, meet John - Johnashiel, Captain of the..."

"No, Queen's Own. I'm not a captain of anything anymore. It's..." the man sighed and Sherlock felt the air move over his skin, making the tiny hairs stand up. "Dear ancestors, are you alright, lad?"

Lad.

He was speaking to _Sherlock_ and calling him "lad".

Who _was_ he...?!

"Johnashiel, I've asked you here today, as I understand you're seeking to fulfil some light duty now that the Healers had let you go... I know from your reports that you've been given a rudimentary course in field Healing. How much knowledge or skill do you retain from that time?"

"Well, most of it, I hope. My gift doesn't speed things up like the full Healer's does, but it ensures cleanliness and I can even turn back a very severe wound fever and blood toxicity."

_Ancestors. Captain no more. Field Healing._

_Johnashiel._

_Rethwellan blood. Probably parents - grandparents? - came in with people Elspeth the Mage brought, stayed, been here long enough to..._

_A soldier._

_A Herald, but..._

_The black, yearning feeling of nothingness in the man's soul screamed at him like a hell's own daemon._

"Why?" he demanded through clenched teeth.

"I know that your shields are back to full strength," Mycroft addressed the stranger, who sighed at the pronouncement. "Therefore, this is your assignment. Someone needs to teach my brother how to use his. Due to an... unfortunate decision, made by some of the Queen's Council, when I was too young to overrule them, my brother's failing control had been managed not through training but through medication."

"It is a known solution to some specific problems with Empathy..." the man seemed confused as to the problem. "Wean him off the concoction, whatever it was, and get him to train with the healers. What's the problem?"

"Healers hate me," he managed to grate out. "And I don't _want_ to stop taking my medicine. It helps. Nothing else helps!"

A pair of hard, warm hands on his neck, one finger on his pulse point and one on the base of his skull.

"I see," the voice went dark. "He needs rest, severing the bond he has with the medicine and someone to shield him in the meanwhile. It would have been easier if I had..."

_A fleeting image of a white shadow in the darkness._

_Oh._

_A Herald who had lost his Companion._

_His loss wrapped itself around Sherlock's loss like a tight band._

He felt himself losing his balance and a strong, steady hold kept him up.

"Come on, lad. To your chamber, let's give you a safe place to let your body cleanse itself of the poison, and then we'll start."

He found himself carried up the stairs, his brain barely functioning from the sudden relief.

Tight, perfect shields snapped around him, cutting him off from everything and everyone.

He would never admit to anyone, but it might have been the best feeling in his life.

_#_

In the end, a Companion's support wasn't needed.

Sherlock's shields had to be built anew, from ground up, cautiously and carefully, layer by layer, working for both him and people around him. He could finally sleep without John adding his shields to his and wake when he wished and not when someone in the Palace had a bad dream.

In time, his dependence on John waned and their teacher-student relationship slowly morphed into something more equal, more balanced and much, much deeper.

One day, John told him all about the loss he had endured, the moment when he felt half of his soul winking out of existence and his powers leaking away like water from a broken pot.

One day, Sherlock told him back the story of sleepless nights and the balm on the soul the foul concoction became.

One day, they curled up around each other, Sherlock tracing patterns on John's chest and caressing his weather-tanned face.

"What are we doing?" he asked, brushing away the slightly-too-long fringe of blond hair that John had allowed to grow since he had been released from the Healers' Hall.

"Whatever you want, love," came the sleepy answer.

"Why are we doing this? Why..."

A kiss silenced him.

"Because I love you," was the calm response. "Because you love me."

"But, John..."

"Sh," a kiss pressed to his knuckles. "Sleep, my Prince."

And nothing else was needed.

_#_

And then the war came.

And despite the loss, despite the infirmity, despite the fact that he was needed right there, in the Palace, with him, Johnashiel had cut his hair again, collected his light armour and left, joining the forces on the frontlines, his bow and arrows, his trace of a Fetching gift and his healing saving numerous lives.

And Sherlock, with his half-healed soul, his almost-whole heart and his nearly sound mind, was left behind, sentenced to passing contacts during the night, when they were both nearly asleep and when their thoughts somehow touched.

_I love you._

_I miss you._

Even in thoughts, he could never force himself to say it back.

_#_

He finally convinced his brother he would join their forces in battle.

And that only to see his lover fall.

One arrow.

One stupid, well-aimed arrow was all it took.

"You promised," he whispered, tearing off Johnashiel's padded jacket, trying to staunch the bleeding. "You promised!"

"I will," the man swallowed, closing his eyes. "I will be there for you, love."

"And I never told you! John, John, please, wait... I have to..."

Blue eyes, no longer looking at him, but staring at the equally blue sky.

The soldiers around them started staggering and faltering in their step.

Sherlock had let it go. He simply didn't care anymore.

What for?

His shields winked out of existence, for just a second.

A battlefield away, an archer fell to the ground, blood pouring out of his ears and nose.

And another.

And another.

The Prince didn't care whose arrow it was. They were all guilty.

 

#

 

The Bell on the Companion's Field started tolling, sending the message of yet another death across the Palace.

Mycroft looked at the slim Trainee sitting next to him as she stiffened and gasped.

"It's the one without the Companion," she blurted out suddenly. "It's the..."

"Dear heavens. My brother."

"No, sir, it's Johnashiel," she corrected, surprised. "The Prince is not part of..."

"They are lifebonded."

"But, Sir, I can't feel the Prince. It's like..." she swallowed and cringed. "Like a ball of black, all around Captain Johnashiel's last position. It's..." she shook and turned away.

"He dropped his shields, didn't he?"

The girl was shaking. Just a bit.

"Anthie? Could you come with me to the Companions Field?"

"S-sir?"

"I..." he sighed. "I need to reach my brother."

 

#

 

Rolan ambled to the spot where they stood, shivering, Mycroft leaning on his crutch and Anthie still in shock.

"There are things you will learn today you will not be able to unlearn," he said softly. "One of them is that the Queen's Own without Empathy is useless. And the other is..." he swallowed. "My Empathy works only on three persons. My Mother the Queen, my brother and Rolan."

His Companion leaned into his touch as if he, too, needed reassurance.

"Now," he said softly. "Show Rolan _where_ you felt them. He will aim me."

 

#

 

The journey back from the battlefield took three days.

Even seasoned soldiers were shaken by what the Prince had done when his lover had fallen.

The carnage, both in mind and in body, was such that even after Mycroft's remote intervention from the capital it had taken three Herolds to subdue Sherlock and bring him back home, where he was put under constant observation at the Healer's Hall.

From which he escaped on his second morning, seeking out the safest, best-shielded place on the grounds, and the inhabitants welcomed him and snapped their personal shields over his scrubbed-raw brain.

 

#

 

It had been seven weeks and he had to get a grip on himself. Or he would do more damage than he was worth. The only thing that stood between him and sheer, mind-numbing madness was the radiation of the Companions' minds.

Sherlock was curled up in a heap of blankets on the hay in the attic of the Companions Stable, trying to manage his own emotions. He _knew_ he could do it. He had trained this. It just... wasn't that easy anymore. But he had to. There were _six_ pregnant Herold-less companions now on the field and he had promised to be part of the group that would watch them in case of complications.

Johnashiel would have liked him to do it, wouldn't he?

"Sherlock? You there, boy? Better get down here, we need every pair of hands!"

He uncoiled hesitantly, but the voice of Kirrah, who was standing at the bottom of the ladder hurried him up.

From the stories he knew that she looked remarkably like her esteemed mother, Herold Captain Kerowyn, and by what he saw of that very serious, now retired, lady, their characters were identical, to a T.

"Coming," he sighed. "What's the rush?"

"A storm is brewing," she grimaced. "And the healers say that both humans and Companiona give birth much more readily during a storm, so we may have six labours on our hands, literally. I'm bringing in some of the less tired trainees and a few Guards."

"What..." he sighed, sitting down on a bale of hay. "What about an actual Healer or two?"

"They have human maternity ward to manage," she said darkly. "Including two pairs of twins. They will send someone the moment they can, but some of theirs are already in labour..."

He nodded apathetically.

"Now, boy, I know you've had it tough recently and... Ancestors know I can't even imagine what it feels like to lose a partner like that, but we need you. I know you sleep in the Stable because they shield you, so now it's time to pay back for their generosity, Sher. You have nice slim hands and they _like_ you. All of them. So go, strip this smelly tunic off, wash yourself and come eat something with me. You will need your strength for this."

"J... He always told me to eat before work," he sighed again. "I just... I just can't. There is something in my stomach that just twists. I can't..."

"Wash and come take some tea at least. And then you can sit with Amarhie and wait for her contractions to start. She is the one closest to term."

And the night crawled on. There were moments of sheer panic, when two mares went into final stages of labour together or when one turned out to be carrying twins after all - and very smug about it! - and moments of relief and joy - when the Healers arrived, a whole bevy of them, and descended upon the Companions like helpful bees, pushing and pulling and making the last babies emerge unscathed.

"You go to sleep, young one," someone pushed him out of the door as soon as he washed himself clean. "You need your rest. One positive aspect of this mess, you are too tired for your Empathy to work, so you should get some rest - and so will we."

"B-but, I sleep here..."

"Today, this is a barn full of newborns. You won't be getting any sleep _here_. Take your cape and blankets and go back to your room in the Palace, Sherlock. Just don't be surprised, there is a burnt-out tree on the way. Must have been hit by a lighting."

 

#

 

There was, in fact, a tree struck by lighting.

There was also a Companion standing next to it, looking at it quizzically.

_:I never thought it would cause that much damage...:_

"What?"

The blue eye with just a bit of a fringe falling into it turned to him.

_:I wasn't expecting to actually destroy something showing up. We will have to plant a replacement tree, I suppose.:_

"We?"

There was a hint of a raised eyebrow in the Companion's gaze.

_:We, as in, you and me, Chosen. Come on, let's find ourselves some better place to talk, shall we?:_

He stood, rooted in the spot.

These things didn't happen to him.

He was no Vanyel, to be late-Chosen. No Elspeth. No Kerowyn! He was just...

_:Sherlock, you coming?:_

There was something about that mindvoice.

"Why?" he didn't manage to stop the question from emerging. "Why now?"

A soft huff of breath warmed his face.

 _:Because you had to wait for me to be ready,:_ the Companion admitted, with a hint of... of regret? _:They thought it would be much earlier, but when I pulled through after that last wound, they decided to...:_

"What 'they'? What do you mean 'ready', what wound?!"

Yes, he sounded hysterical. No, he didn't care.

 _:Ah. Sorry, got it a bit out of order,:_ the large form stopped and then turned back to him. _:Hello, my Prince. My name is Iothan and I am your Companion. You are my Chosen. Your gifts are mind-speaking, empathy and a hint of firestarting and far-seeing. My gifts are amplifying whatever you have and I can add a significant strength of healing to this set. I can shield you - my mental and empathy shields are significantly better than what I had before. We will now require some time in isolation in order for our shields to enmesh again and the storm that is now around us isn't exactly helping either of us to focus. I know it's not a very promising spot, but I know a cave by the river that we can use to wait out the next wave of rain.:_

"I'm not going anywhere with you," he turned away and squeezed his eyes shut. "I don't need you. I don't need you now."

_:Sherlock...:_

"Where were you when Father died?" he sobbed. "Where were you when I couldn't sleep or think or feel for myself, because I had to listen to the whole city in my head? Where were you when they decided to get rid of the problem by drugging me with some poison?! Where were you when I started to _love_ the poison!?"

The Companion sighed. Heavily.

"Where--" he choked on his own words. "Where were you when he died? Why weren't you there? I would have gone with him and... at least I could have told him I loved him...!"

 _:Ah...:_ a soft, white nose touched his balled-up fist. _:I wasn't... I wasn't ready yet.:_

"Then what use are you now?!" he snatched away his hands and fisted his hair with all fingers, pulling at his curls, trying to silence the screaming inside.

_:You can tell me now.:_

"What?" he grimaced at the idea. "I can't tell you anything! I don't know why you are here _now_. I have... I have nothing. Nobody. I don't want anyone. You are useless...!"

A huff of warm air warmed his shivery body.

_:You are a drama queen, my love.:_

_My love._

_Iothan._

_Shields to enmesh again._

_:There you are.:_

"H-how?"

_:They had been waiting for me to cross over.:_

"But it's not... it doesn't make..."

_:I've been through this three times. Rolan and Taver have gone five round each, but then they weren't stuck... And now I knew who I was looking for and I had to try again, maybe this time it will be the right way, the last one for us, love.:_

White head nudged his hand.

"John..." his lips trembled as he turned to look into these blue eyes. "I can't do it without you. I tried, I promise. I never slipped back, but my head, my head is too full...! I sleep in the stables and they all help, but it hurts so much, I sometimes think I won't wake up from the next one...!"

 _:That's why I'm here, love,:_ the white, warm body was there and if he closed his eyes and only listened with his mind and heart, it was like... _:Shh. No crying now, my Prince. Let me carry you, like I did that first day, when you were so ill.:_

"John..."

_:Iothan.:_

"Why!?"

A warmth wrapping around his brain, soothing the irritation left by days and days of grief.

_:Not everyone comes back. If people learnt that Herolds can, sometimes, they'd start asking why not everyone else.:_

"But... Why you? Why us?"

A sigh.

_:It was a punishment, I think. They allowed me to love you, when I survived the wound, but I was always meant to leave and change. Just like the last time.:_

"Who? Why would _they_ do this?" he sank his fingers into the thick mane.

_:Because the last time 'round we managed to cheat the fates for much too long. Your spell... it kept is in one place for so long... By the way, do you know that in this body, you are your own descendant?:_

He froze for a moment.

"What... John, stop it. Just stop it. I don't want it like this. I don't want this. I want you, back."

_:Not even your power can bring back my old body, ashke. This was the fastest I could get to you.:_

"You are not making any sense. You..."

_:Beloved, it was either that or another seventeen years without me. Even if I was born prematurely, I'd only come to be more than half a year from now. And sixteen years from that point, I'd say, for me to find my way back to you. The last time it took that long and the time it took me to convince you to give in - and who knows what talents I'd receive this time. Maybe none at all.:_

"I don't want to listen to it. You are talking rubbish. We are not..."

 _:Ashke, you must accept it,:_ a soft touch at the back of his brain. _:Ever since the explosion freed us of the spell and 'Fandes decided to take a longer break... We were journeying to this point.:_

"But why couldn't we... I wanted _you_...!"

There was a broken feeling in his head and he saw the Companion turning away.

_:I can ask them for another go.:_

The voice was choked in his mind.

John was crying in his thoughts.

He had made John cry.

_:I'm afraid for you, ashke. But if you really wish so, I will go.:_

The Companion heaved a sigh, shook his head and bowed it, in obvious pain.

Something was breaking inside Sherlock's soul.

The bond.

"NO!"

The white legs shivered and slowly bend, the Companion lying on the grass, panting in exhaustion.

 _:Someone is coming,:_ he murmured as Sherlock slid down, cushioning the white head with his own legs.

"Ancestors," he sighed. "I almost killed you, didn't I? Just like I almost killed Yfandes the previous time..."

A shiver went through the white body.

 _:I will need some rest,:_ a voice eerily like John's whispered. _:She will help.:_

"Who...?"

"Boy, what are you doing here?"

He looked up from where he was combing John's mane cautiously with both hands.

The woman was old - older than his grandmother - she was someone, someone specific...

And her Companion - heavens!

_:If you live to my age, you will be no beauty yourself, boy.:_

"I think I already did, at least once," he blinked. There was something heavy on his heart, but he couldn't understand what it was. Yet, there was something in the back of his mind, someone, a feeling, a consciousness, spreading slowly, memories seeping through his own, slowly infusing him with the _other_ knowledge.

_:Sherlock...:_

_But the echo said softly something else, another name, a name that felt just like his own._

_He felt it on his tongue._

_He swallowed around the 'V' it was starting from._

John. John was here, John was...

John was now Iothan.

Sayvil.

She took a much easier route.

 _:Aunt Savil,:_ he sobbed soundlessly. _:I think he might be dying. Again. Why am I always hurting him?:_

Captain Kerowyn slowly knelt next to his Companion and slid her hand over his head, checking for something Sherlock could not follow her movements - but she pinched John's skin. Pinched!

"And you call yourself a healer, young man?" she asked, frowning.

"N-no, my lady," he coughed painfully. "I'm..."

"Talking to him," she pointed to Iothan. "He has Healing and he knows his own physiology. And what the stupid horsey does? Goes who knows how long without water. Like. A. Lovesick. Idiot. Sayvil?"

The older Companion rolled her eyes and turned her side to them, allowing Kerowyn to fetch a bottle from the saddle-side without standing up.

"Now, boy," she nodded at Sherlock, "keep his head steady while I pour this water down his throat. Companions are supposed to be these wonderful, high-brow intelligent creatures. For one, some are idiots, just like humans. Secondly, they tend to forget that their bodies are not indestructible. And third..." she eyed him up and down. "Third, they are ready for any sacrifice they think _we_ need."

He focused on how John's body seemed to be growing heavier and heavier.

And _plunged_.

 _:If you go, I go,:_ he mindsent to the soul in front of/below him.

Lendel/Stefen/John paused, shivering.

 _:Ashke...:_ the voice was weak and hurting. _:They will need you.:_

_:And I need you. I need you, not some stupid body. Come back. I'm sorry, my love, come back.:_

A young man turned helplessly back to him, hair slowly changing hue, from black to red to blond to white.

"Lifebond," someone said above him. "He is bringing the soul of his bonded back."

"How can someone be lifebonded to their own Companion?" a querulous voice asked. "It was hard to explain as it was that the Prince had taken a lover from the ranks...!"

A sound of a slap cut that compliant in half.

"Only very specific people lifebond at all," it was Kerowyn, leaning over him, her face drawn. "You have to try now, Your Majesty. He will listen to you."

Another pair of hands. Strong. Decided.

"Come back to us, brother," Mycroft's voice sounded weirdly doubled. "Come back. I cannot lose anyone more today."

He coughed and reached to touch the hand that was holding...

_Your Majesty._

_Mother._

_The storm._

_Her heart._

"Mother passed away today, Sherlock," Mycroft's doubled voice sounded otherworldly, making Sherlock's head spin. "I need you to come back to me, please."

It was Rolan. Rolan was amplifying Mycroft's Sending.

"Iothan," he groaned. "I hurt him."

"He will live. You stopped the severance in time. Rolan says Iothan will need a lot of time with you to heal the break, but first, you need to come back with us."

"But he can't walk!"

_:We will carry him.:_

There were two huge, heavily-muscled Companions standing just next to Sayvil, each of them led by a tall, well-built Herold. They were _identical_ , down to the way they moved - both pairs.

 _:Elsen and Selen,:_ Sayvil nodded at the men. _:Rolan called on them for help.:_

Elsen and Selen...

"Up, brother," Mycroft guided him slowly to his legs, while the twins - grandsons of Herold Jemmeth, great-grandsons of Queen's Own Talia - stood over Iothan's exhausted body.

Which moved.

Up.

Up.

Up and to the side.

And onto the weird, bridge-like piece of equipment drawn between their twin Companions.

"Specific Fetching gift," Mycroft murmured. "Dirk's legacy."

_Herold Dirk, one who had Fetched his beloved from another country - helped by half of Companions present at the scene - and the great-grandfather of these two Heralds._

_:Sherlock?:_

He dropped to his knees next to Iothan's head.

_:Love you.:_

"I love you, too," he hid his face in the thick mane. "I want this to be the last time. Can we make it the last time?"

A shiver went down the white body.

 _:We have one more fight to win,:_ the Companion mind-whimpered. _:But after that, we can rest.:_

Sherlock wasn't naive enough to assume that meant a happy life in the countryside for either of them.

After all, the last person who had life-bonded with their Companion had left behind swaths of land burnt to the ground in the defence of his country.

Who knew what was in the cards for him.

For them.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello,
> 
> Thank you for making it that far!  
> I have a small request to you - a tiny thing that will help me improve, hopefully.  
> I am taking a writing course and one of the tasks is to ask my readers to describe my writing style in 3 adjectives. I'd be grateful if you could provide this kind of feedback :)  
> (if you provided it already somewhere else - THANK YOU! :))
> 
> Find me on [my tumblr](https://srebrnafh.tumblr.com/).  
> [My writing blog.](https://fanfik.wordpress.com/)  
> [My handmade blog.](https://srebrna.wordpress.com/)
> 
> Regards
> 
> Srebrna F H


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